Guitar
by Love Like Homicide
Summary: Pete teaches Mike how to play the guitar. Pete/Mike


Pete sat in the back of Henrietta's red Toyota Yaris, Firkle beside him and the other two in the front. They had the windows down, cigarettes in hand and She Wants Revenge blasting through the stereo. From a distance, it would look like they were having a rave, but this was just their typical Monday morning. He vaguely heard the recess bell echoing from under the electronic rock, but that didn't concern him. If you don't go to class, the bells become meaningless noise. They had better things to do, like decide which songs they were going to cover at their gig Friday night. Their usual set-list, while easy to play, was also getting boring, and their last original song bombed worse than 'Talent Shows are for Fags' had in forth grade. He didn't know what they'd been thinking with that.

He was in the middle of lighting up his third cigarette that hour when someone knocked on his window, nearly causing him to drop it. His head shot up and he glared at Mike, who waved sheepishly. He rolled down the window. 'Oh my God, what?!'

Mike wrung his hands together. 'Hey Pete, could we talk?'

'The fuck's it look like we're doing?' He flipped his fringe out of his face.

'I mean some place private.'

He looked to his friends. Henrietta and Michael had their eyebrows raised, Henrietta looking more annoyed than confused, and Firkle was glaring. 'Yeah, sure, whatever.'

They walked to the edge of the parking lot and Pete leaned against a bike-rack. He put his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze. In truth, he missed when they used to gather outside in the elements, when he could feel the damp air and the snow under his feet, but the others disagreed. They only put up with sitting in the loading bay because it was the only place they had any privacy.

Mike cleared his throat but didn't say anything. Pete opened his eyes and glared down at him, noting how the red in his cheeks clashed with his navy blue eyeshadow. 'Well?'

'I saw your show last week,' he mumbles and looks past him, towards the highway.

'I don't write autographs for vampires, if that's what you want.'

Mike shook his head fiercely. 'No! I just… I want you to teach me how to play guitar.'

Pete gave him a blank look. 'No.'

'I'll pay you!'

He thought about it. He needed a new amp and those things aren't cheap, even with paid gigs and Henrietta's allowance they didn't have a hope in raising enough before the end of the year. Better equipment meant better gigs, and better gigs meant more money, and more money meant he could finally move out of his father's trailer. 'Okay, I'll do it.'

Mike grinned. 'Great. My house, eight o'clock?'

He shrugged. 'Sure.'

Pete knew where the Makowski house was, because this was South Park, and everyone knew where everyone lived. It was creepy, in a way. That didn't stop him from being awestruck by the place. Mike's family was rich, not as rich as the Black family, but richer than anyone Pete had ever been friends with. The house was two stories high with a stone fence and balconies visible from the street. He squeezed the strap of his guitar bag and found himself unable to move from the side-walk. He didn't deserve to enter that house. He wasn't good enough for such a place, even if it's enemy territory. The self-hate that lingered in the back of his mind, no matter what he did, was rearing its ugly, mutated head, but there wasn't anything he could do to stop it. Not while a part of him still believed what it said.

'Pete!'

He jumped on the spot, surprised to see Mike on the porch.

'You made it. I wasn't sure you'd come,' Mike said as he rushed down the footpath. He grabbed the Goth's arm and pulled him towards the house. 'Are you hungry? I've already had dinner, but mum said she would put some snacks out if you want.'

'Eh, sure,' Pete muttered. His face felt uncomfortably hot.

Mike shut the door behind them and led him into large lounge room with plush white couches and photos of young-Mike on the walls, interspersed with paintings of gerbera flowers and off-colour fruit. 'Make yourself comfortable, I'll go tell my mum you're here.'

Pete settled into the couch and got out his guitar. He wasn't sure he'd be able to eat anything, his stomach was doing flips so high inside his gut it was threatening to burst out of his mouth. He had gotten so comfortable with his friends that he'd forgotten how much he hated being alone with anyone else. He'd forgotten how hard it was for him to meet new people. Still, he could do this. If there was one thing he knew he could to, it was play guitar. He'd taught it to himself easily enough, so how hard could it be to teach someone else?

Mike returned with a large, hexagonal ceramic plate covered in different biscuits and cheeses. Behind him was a chubby middle-aged woman with Mike's green eyes and gentle smile, holding two glasses of coke. They put everything on the coffee table and Pete sank further back into the couch, trying to assimilate. He'd rather be a part of the couch right now. Couches don't have to talk to their enemy's mother.

The woman looked at him, like he'd hoped she wouldn't, and gestured to the tray. 'Please, help yourself, and if there's anything else you'd like don't hesitate to ask. I'm Martha, Mike's mum. I'm so thrilled you're here, he's been talking about getting into music for ages, but my boy can be so shy. I'm glad he's found a friend who can teach him.'

He considered them friends about as much as he considered Mike shy, but he couldn't say that. Unlike Henrietta, he didn't like upsetting polite little ladies. 'Thank you,' he said, a little too quickly.

Martha left Mike settled down beside Pete, close enough that Pete could feel his body heat and his breath on his face when he spoke. 'So, what's first, teacher?'

'I guess we'll start with the cords.'

'How'd Mikey's lesson go?' Henrietta asked. Michael was helping Firkle set up his drum kit, so it was just the two of them in the windowless supply closet the bar generously called backstage.

They hadn't talked much about his impromptu tutoring, the Vamp-kids were always a sore spot with Michael, but he had been hoping someone would ask. Being in Mike's house was such a surreal experience, like his own home before his mother left and his father got on the grog, but with a lot more love. The love in the Makowski house was palpable, and perplexing. It was like being trapped somewhere between the now and an idealised past, like a reminder of things that weren't but could have been. It reminded him of how much he missed his mother. He thought he would have hated teaching Mike, but now that it'd happened, he didn't know how to feel.

'Fine, his house is big,' Pete replied, not looking up from his guitar. They were on in ten minutes and the thing refused to tune.

'Yeah, no shit. His step-dad works in marketing or something else boring. Did they pay you?'

'Yeah, thirty bucks a lesson.'

'Damn, I'd sell my soul for that.'

Pete scoffed. 'I'm not selling my soul. All douchy conformists want to play guitar, why shouldn't I make money off them?'

'Ah, maybe because it's Mike?' She lit a cigarette, fogging up the small space almost instantly. 'If it turns out he has any talent at all, everyone is going to flock to his shows instead of ours. Most of our audience is emos and vamp-kid who still think we're like them. It sucks, but we need those posers if we want to get out of this racist, inbred town and find real fans.'

He sighed. 'People can like more than one band.'

'And what about our shows? It's already hard enough to book a dark-wave band, we don't need competition.'

'You're paranoid,' was all Pete said, but her words rang in his head all night.

'Is this right?' Mike asked. They were on their third lesson and Pete had decided to teach him Smoke on the Water, because the internet said that was what most guitarists learnt first. After learning the basics, Mike had picked up everything else almost instantly. Henrietta had filled his head with all sorts of unwanted scenarios, and now Pete couldn't help but be as worried as he was impressed.

'Yeah, that's pretty good,' he mumbled. 'Mike?'

'Hm?' Mike's eyes glanced up from the guitar, but he kept his head down. His hair fell in waves around his face and cast shadows over his skin, giving him the dark yet sensual look that Pete associated with Anne Rice's vampires. He had to force himself not to stare.

'So, like, why'd you want to learn guitar, anyway? I mean, you don't even own one.'

Mike's cheeks flushed and he turned his eyes back to the strings. 'I don't know, it just seemed fun.'

'You going to start a freaking vampire-themed boy band or something?'

Mike laughed. 'No way, though I did try to write a Twilight musical when I was a kid, per se. I planned to sell it to Broadway and everything.'

'Gay,' he drawled.

'Yeah, it was. But no, I don't want to be in a band. At least, not unless there's an opening in yours?'

'We don't play with posers.'

Mike smacked him on the shoulder. 'Not until I win you over with my epic guitar skills.'

'You still haven't mastered the easiest song on the planet.'

Martha shuffled into the lounge room. 'You boys need anything? Drink refills? Snacks? I bought some Tim-Tams at the store earlier.'

At first, he found Martha overbearing and annoying - after all, she just like Henrietta's mother. Yet, she was growing on him. Unlike Henrietta's mother, she didn't seem to look down on him for the way he dressed or how he behaved. In fact, even though he didn't smoke at all during their first lesson, when he arrived for the second one he found a crimson glass ashtray on the front porch, something he definitely would have noticed had it been there before.

'No thank you, ma'am,' he said with a genuine smile.

'He's lying.' Michael plucked the cigarette from Pete's mouth and took a drag. They were sitting on the floor of Henrietta's room, the curtains closed and candles burning around them, writing poetry. Or, at least they would be, if Michael would just let undead dogs die.

'What?' He slammed his notebook shut harder than he'd intended.

'Why would he pay you for something just because it seemed fun?'

'I don't know, maybe because his parents are rich nutjobs. Why are you guys so obsessed?' He flicked the hair out of his face and snatched back his smoke.

Firkle tossed his half-full packet at Michael, who gave him a nod. After their conversation, Henrietta passed on her concerns to the others, and Michael wouldn't let it go. He was acting as if this was some kind of vampire conspiracy to destroy their band. Destroy it for thirty dollars an hour. 'Since when do you trust a conformist over your own friends?' Michael asked.

Pete flushed. 'Fuck off.'

Henrietta sighed. 'Will you two knock it off! I need to get these lyrics finished before tomorrow night.'

'Why are you even bothering?' Pete asked. 'All our original songs suck arse.'

'Because unlike some people, I care about our future. We can't just be another pathetic little cover band riding the coattails of someone else's success. I want to be more than that.'

'We won't be anything if Pete keeps helping Count Poser.'

Pete wanted to argue, ask Michael what he expected him to do, but there was no point. They would just go around in circles. If he had to prove himself, prove that he wanted what they wanted, then he would do it on stage.

They were playing the Raisins Halloween party. Not a particularly glamorous venue, but by the far the most prestigious to contact them. Whether it was for the cute girls or the all-you-can-eat Buffalo wings, every teenager in South Park had been to Raisins, and this was their biggest event. All the tables had been covered with black lace cloths that resembled over-sized doilies, the walls were outfitted with flashing blue and red strobe lights, and there were fake spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling. There was even a fog machine. Pete appreciated the focus on atmosphere over horror, even if, as a result, the restaurant wasn't as eye catching as some other places this time of year. It would complement their music nicely, which made him think that maybe they were hired for more than their dark wardrobe.

He was alone backstage this time. His band-mates had already finished setting up and were now at the bar filling up on free chips and coffee. His hands shook as he strummed through the same set of cords for the twelve time. He didn't think it sounded right but he couldn't figure out what was wrong and now he couldn't even keep his fingers from slipping off the neck. He needed this show to go well, he needed Henrietta to stop worrying and Michael to stop doubting him, but that wouldn't happen if he played the wrong notes or dropped his guitar on stage because his hands were so trembly and slippery and weak. What was wrong with his hands?

Someone knocked on the door to the crew room, where he'd been hauled up for at least a couple of hours. 'Yeah?' he called.

The door slid open and Mike poked his head in. He grinned sheepishly. 'Hey, nervous for the big show?'

Pete sighed and patted the spot beside him on the hideous lime green couch. Mike scrambled over and sat down. 'Yeah, I guess.'

Mike glanced down at his hands, knuckles still twitching. 'You've got nothing to worry about. You always play spectacularly, per se, and I'm sure tonight won't be any different.'

'What would you know?' Pete snapped and shoved the guitar off his lap. It hit the carpet with a thump that echoed around the small room. He put his head in his hands. 'It's just,' he sighed, 'you don't get it. This is the biggest gig we've ever had, and Henrietta only finished one of the songs _yesterday_, and maybe it sucks, I don't know, but I don't want it to suck because of me. I don't want to be the one to ruin everything for us.'

Mike put a hand on Pete's back and rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blade. 'You won't be. You're better than you think, I promise.'

'How can you promise that?'

'Because I've been to all your shows, I've seen what you can do. You're amazing.'

Pete slowly sat up, but Mike's hand didn't leave, instead it wrapped around his shoulder and pulled him into a half-hug. He rested his head on Mike's shoulder. The Vampire was warm and smelt like tropical body-spray and spearmint shampoo. He took a slow inhale and closed his eyes. 'Thank you.'

Mike ran his fingers through Pete's fringe. 'It's nothing.'

'Why did you want to learn guitar?' Pete hadn't realised what he was saying until the question was out.

'To be like you, mostly,' Mike admitted.

Pete rolled his head back until he could see the side of Mike's face. His cheeks were red. 'What does that mean?'

'I just wanted up to have something in common.'

Pete sat up properly and put a hand on Mike's leg, keeping the contact. Mike stared at him, his body stone-still, waiting. Pete wound his free hand in Mike's hair and kissed him. Not a deep kiss, just the touch of skin on skin, but the feel of Mike's soft lips, the heat of his breath on his cheek, and the after-taste of raspberry soft drink was enough to kill his nerves and evoke a giddy euphoria.

Henrietta's muffled voice yelled at him from the hallway and he pulled away. Pete stood up and grinned at Mike's red, awestruck face. 'Find me after the show.' He winked.


End file.
